


"The Making of a Fascist State", or, "Mad Jack Must Bring Britishness to the 'Noble Savages' in His Majesty's name"

by Worffan101



Series: Two Badasses in Essos: A Four Badasses Spinoff [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6784588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worffan101/pseuds/Worffan101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of this story idea that I had on AH.com.  Trigger warning: Reinhard Heydrich is in this.  </p>
<p>Two soldiers on the wrong planet come up with a plan and begin to turn the Dothraki from a military joke into something at least resembling a disciplined fighting force almost by accident.  Also, the most evil Nazi ever implements his plan to bring Qarth, and eventually the world, beneath his iron heel.  Originally posted on AH.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	"The Making of a Fascist State", or, "Mad Jack Must Bring Britishness to the 'Noble Savages' in His Majesty's name"

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: Reinhard Heydrich is an unapologetic Nazi who is more than happy to fabricate a race-based scare to gain power and turn a city into an oppressive fascist hellhole. Please be warned that his viewpoints are specifically written to show the inner workings of a complete sociopath. 
> 
> There's also more profanity than you can shake a stick at in this. Be warned.

Reinhard Heydrich walked along the docks, ignoring the noise and the stench, his longcoat crisp and clean and his SS cap positioned firm and straight on his head. Behind him came four officers of the Civic Guard, uniforms re-tailored at the expense of Heydrich's patron to look more like Heydrich's own outfit, two armed with cudgel and sword, and two with the basic _luntenschlossen_ that Heydrich had designed. Heydrich himself bore his rapier at his side, and his pistol safely inside one of his coat's deep forward pockets.   
  
The dock-workers and other civilians gave Heydrich and his men a narrow but respectful berth. Heydrich was of a mildly disturbing appearance even at his most emotional (it was the cold, dead eyes, his brother's wife had always whispered--the way they glittered and seemed to always be sizing you up like a lamb for the slaughter), but now, concentrating on the job and on his plans, he was positively terrifying; the cold, emotionless face bearing only the slightest frown, and the eyes, those horrible cold dead eyes glittering from their sockets like dark stars. All in all, it balanced out on the positive side. Less need to worry about a pickpocket taking his pistol. And when the plan sprung into action...he would be seen as hard, but dutiful, a model leader. Perfect for his plans.   
  
It was nearly time, Heydrich noted. The mercenaries would be making their move soon, their cheating comrade ready for capture.   
  
There was a scuffle ahead, and a scream. Heydrich broke into a trot, snapping for his guardsmen to follow. Now was the time.   
  
Three Ibbenese men, armored with fur over leather armor and jagged swords, hauled a rich merchant and his family onto the cobblestones, shouting gutturally in their native tongue. The man was down, guts spilling on the pavement. One of the men, the one Heydrich was to capture, began setting the nearby warehouse on fire as the other two did their part of the plan; the one crushing the merchant's infant daughter to the ground and stepping on her head until the skull splintered, and the other stabbing the woman repeatedly as she screamed. Heydrich snapped an order; the swordsmen moved forwards, and the gunmen raised their weapons.   
  
The sellswords had mentioned when hired that they were a trio, and the two who had dealt with Heydrich had said that they were between companies, and their partner had stolen from them. Heydrich did not care; clearing up the loose end was all that mattered.   
  
The first man turned and began to run, expecting to "escape" dramatically, and took Reinhard Heydrich's rapier through his back, piercing right between the ties of the cheap leathers. The second one spun in shock, and was cut down, cursing, by the swordsmen. The arsonist turned at the commotion; Heydrich barked an order. One _luntenschloss_ ball missed its target, shattering a window-shutter, but the other kneecapped the man, who screamed in pain and crumpled.   
  
"Get that fire out, at once," barked Heydrich. "And you! Get me that filthy _untermensch_! The sub-human creature will pay for this!"   
  
About the right amount of outrage, Heydrich thought. The next few steps were tricky, but once through he would have easy power. The prisoner was brought to him.   
  
"You see this foul subhuman?" Heydrich shouted, forcing the prisoner to the ground after stuffing the fur shoulderpad of one of the dead men into his mouth. "You see what the filthy Ibbenese do to our most respected citizens?" He spat, his face the very _picture_ of righteous outrage. "Filthy half-animal mongrel!"   
  
The crowd was on his side, hissing and shouting in rage, pelting the squat, hairy man with fruit as the word of the brutal murder spread. The guards reported back; the fire was out, minimal damage.   
  
Heydrich nodded sharply, and kicked the prisoner in the back of the head, knocking him flat and unconscious. "Take this animal filth back to the guard-house! I will interrogate him myself! Damnable subhuman filth."   
  
Stage one, complete. The crowd was on his side, howling and spitting on the comatose prisoner. Heydrich motioned to his two _musketieren_. "Give these poor people a decent funeral, at my expense," he ordered loudly. "I am outraged that this vile crime happened on my watch, that these subhuman animals were able to harm our noble people in this way." He made a show of grinding his teeth. "See it done. Go!"   
  
The guards saluted, right hands held up diagonally in front of them, on a stiff arm. " _Heil Heydrich_ , sir!" said one of the men, a middle-aged Qartheen named Xhagar. "And, sir, what about these two filth?" He kicked one of the dead mercenaries.   
  
Heydrich spat on the body with a carefully-constructed hateful sneer. "String them up, have a crier announce their crimes. Let the people vent their hate."   
  
"Yes, sir! _Heil Heydrich!_ "   
  
Reinhard Heydrich left the way he'd come, the crowd parting for him as he strode back to the guardhouse. He noted with satisfaction that the salute and the _Heil Heydrich_ were already spreading among the civilians. A resounding success, then. Time for stage two.   
***  
Milunka Savic lay back on her bedroll with a sigh. "English, I hate this place already."   
  
"I do not disagree, dear lady," Mad Jack replied. "England nowhere to be found, none know of His Majesty or his army, and that map..." Mad Jack trailed off. The map had been the most disheartening part of the last few days.   
  
"Well, at least you have an army of naked Turks," noted Milunka, only somewhat sarcastically. "They ought to be good for something. Like cannon fodder." She spat. Milunka Savic did not like Turks on the grounds of Serbian patriotism; indeed, the word "Turk" indicated something rather more despicable than "Prince of Darkness" to the partisan. "So, you want to help the brat and his sister reclaim their throne?"   
  
"It does seem like a righteous and noble cause," Mad Jack said from his own bedroll, "but I fear that we do not have enough men, given the strength of these 'Seven Kingdoms' that has been indicated to us. Perhaps we should get more forces--and a fleet will be necessary."   
  
"Agreed. We have about four options, then, English; this Braavos place that the fat bastard talked about, the Volantis city with its factions, this "Mereen" with its slaves--we could attack the city, free the slaves from their filthy masters, get our fleet that way--or head to this Qarth place on the other side of the big plains. You have any thoughts?"   
  
"I do dislike the primitive institution of slavery, myself," mused the Englishman. "Perhaps Mereen first?"   
  
"Good idea. We head there, then. Hopefully we can get some ships, help the poor girl reclaim her throne." Savic cursed in Serbian. "My husband, Veljko, he's going to be fucking swamped. The man doesn't know jack fucking shit about raising children. Fine man, but like all men he couldn't raise a daughter if his life depended on it. I'll probably find the house burned to the ground and the girls covered in mud."   
  
"Not to mention the time travel aspect," Mad Jack noted. "I daresay that shall be quite the challenge to unravel."   
  
"Ugh. Don't even mention that to me, English." The Serb reached over and grabbed the tent's candle. "We'll need to sleep if you want to impress those barbarian Turks tomorrow. Good night, English."   
  
"Good night, my lady," the madman replied. Savic blew out the candle.   
  
Shit. What the hell had she gotten into this time?   
***  
"ALRIGHT, YOU FUCKING SONS OF WHORES!" Milunka Savic howled in her approximation of Turkish. "STAND UP HARD, YOU IDIOTS! YOUR COMMANDER IS DOING YOU A FAVOR BY NOT BREAKING YOUR SORRY COCKS TODAY, SO STAND AT ATTENTION AND LISTEN TO HIS FUCKING VOICE, COCKSUCKERS!"   
  
Several thousand Dothraki looked at the yelling woman and tried to process what the hell to actually do. Viserys and Daenerys looked on in utter shock. Mad Jack leaped onto the makeshift stage formed by an overturned cart, striding to the top and brandishing his sword. Milunka saluted and stepped back. The Englishman cleared his throat, Milunka shouting a rough and rather profane translation of his words to the Dothraki as he spoke.   
  
"Right, gentlemen! Since it seems that you savage chaps are rather lacking in discipline and ship-building skills, and I have decided to honor your previous leader's oath to this young chap and this dear young lady, we will be riding to the place called Slaver's Bay, where we will take a city, assemble an army of freed slaves, and take a fleet of ships to Westeros, where we will conquer and reclaim the throne that this fellow wants back. Are there any questions?"   
  
There was a general muttering, rather approving, among the Dothraki. Milunka caught "crazy Khal has balls" and "Might be worth it, we could at least get some new bitches to fuck." Finally, a hand rose.   
  
"You, with the, er, large beard and small moustache," Mad Jack pointed. Milunka yelled at the Dothraki to speak his fucking mind, and do it loudly, cocksucker!   
  
"Er, mighty crazy Khal," the Dothraki asked. "Why are we going to _free_ slaves instead of taking them, and why go across the ocean?"   
  
Mad Jack's reply of "Good sir, because slavery is an offense against the laws of His Majesty and God Himself, and we must sail across the sea to reclaim the young King's throne" was translated by Milunka to a rather profane "because the fucking commander said so, jackass, now shut the fuck up and get back in line before he tears your cock off and makes you eat it." The Dothraki reacted to this response with general approval at the threat, which most agreed was very appropriately violent. A general murmur of approval started up, and the Dothraki replied with a polite "I understand, and gladly serve our courageous Khal."   
  
Milunka's response was swift and profane (although, to be fair, her Turkish knowledge consisted of about 80% profanity). "Then salute him, asshole! Show your respect, like this!" She demonstrated a quick salute, which the confused Dothraki aped reasonably well. Several other Dothraki, as well, saluted in confusion. Mad Jack's mustache twitched impressively.   
  
"I assume that they understand, dear lady?"   
  
"Oh, they understand, all right," Savic replied. "If not, then I'll just beat it into their heads. It's my job, after all." She bared her teeth in a drill instructor's not-grin. Several Dothraki shivered in instinctive fear. "I do like this aspect of being a sergeant, now. Kicking some Turk heads in is going to almost be worth being stuck here."   
  
"So they'll listen to me?" Viserys asked as the Dothraki dispersed to pack up their camp. Milunka shook her head.   
  
"No, boy. They'll listen to the crazy Englishman because he killed their chief. To these idiot Turks, you earn respect by killing men."   
  
Viserys looked sullen. "But I am their King! Why would they not listen to me? They should bow down before me, I am the dragon king!"   
  
"You're jack fucking shit at the moment," Milunka snapped back. "The mad Englishman has a plan to get you your throne back, but boy, this is entirely dependent on you acting smart and sitting on your bottom looking handsome until the crazy Englishman's secured your rule. Understand?"   
  
Viserys still looked sullen, but he nodded unhappily.   
  
"You, girl," Milunka said to Daenerys, who looked at the burly soldier without fear. "You don't have fear. Good. Might be because you're already dead inside, but I can work with that, too. You, girl, and you, boy, will come to my tent tomorrow morning once we've made camp. I'll teach you two to fight, and soon these idiot Turks will be bowing down and kissing your feet in terror."   
  
"And finally they will show their true King the respect that I deserve," Viserys hissed, eyes alight with greed. "Brilliant! You will be rewarded, sellsword, if what you say is true! If you lie, then I will have your head!"   
  
Milunka snorted with laughter. "That'll be the day, boy. That'll be the day."   
***  
Reinhard Heydrich smiled as warmly as he could imitate as Xaro Xhoan Daxos greeted him in the antechamber of his mansion. The smile did not quite reach the Nazi's eyes, however, something that Heydrich had been working on.   
  
"Captain Heydrich!" the merchant exclaimed with slightly more than a suitable amount of worry. "I heard about the terrible events down at the docks, and some despicable rumor-monger had told me that you were injured!" Heydrich didn't believe him for an instant. Daxos had spies all over the city and Heydrich was certain that the Nazi would never be told this directly.   
  
Heydrich's response was a rueful chuckle. He'd spent weeks perfecting it. "My dear _Herr_ Daxos, you have so little faith in my abilities! My men are well-trained, and I am most skilled with the thrust of the rapier." He demonstrated with his sword arm, keeping the blade itself sheathed. "Do you perhaps have somewhere that I can leave my uniform coat? I know that the poor gentleman whose family was so barbarously and inhumanly attacked were business associates of yours, and I wished to discuss the events with you--perhaps over some fine wine before a fireplace?"   
  
Daxos caught his meaning and smoothly took the coat himself. "Here, my dear Captain, allow me to put your coat over here on this chair. You know how servants are--thieves and pests, the lot of them!--if I were to leave this beautiful coat with one of them you might never see it again."   
  
"Nonsense, _Herr_ Daxos, a man with your discriminating eye would never be fooled into hiring a base criminal."   
  
"You are too kind, Captain," the merchant replied with a blush. His eyes scrutinized Heydrich, who took special care to show only the expected emotions as he took his indicated seat by the merchant's little personal dining table. The merchant clapped his hands, jeweled beak-nose glittering in the evening light, and several young, handsome boys brought some sort of fig-leaf wraps and fine wine. "Ah, excellent. A fine Westerosi import, from Highgarden itself if I am not mistaken," the merchant proclaimed, sniffing the wine elegantly. The Butcher of Prague raised his own glass in toast.   
  
"To you, my gracious and most charming host. And to your further safety in the wake of this troubling incident today."   
  
The merchant blushed demurely. "You flatter me, Captain. But do tell me, what exactly did happen?"   
  
Heydrich grimaced, a work of art that had taken him a full day and a half of mirror work to perfect. "I fear that some of the details may be too disturbing..."   
  
"I have a strong stomach, Captain; please, I must know."   
  
"Very well," Heydrich replied, adopting a serious mien. "I was on a routine patrol with some of my new _Schutzstaffel_ today, when we encountered some Ibbenese, three of them to be precise, accosting a merchant and his family. All were dead by the time we arrived." Heydrich took a sip and carefully applied a measure of cold rage to his tone, twisting his face into a snarl of rage. "The vile savages had brutalized all three, attacking them far past the point of death, and one was even attempting to set fire to the warehouse. One of the animals even crushed the infant girl's head against the cobblestones."   
  
Daxos looked slightly green. "Oh, my! What...what animals could have done this?" He reached across the table, grasping Heydrich's hand. The nervous sheen of sweat there was real; Heydrich had played his part well.   
  
"I do not know, _mein Herr_ ," Heydrich replied. "Foul and loathsome subhuman beasts, to be sure--perhaps a trait of the Ibbenese degenerates. But do not fear, my handsome merchant; I shall always protect you."   
  
Stage two was simple; seduce the powerful merchant and get his backing in decisions. Heydrich would have to use a light hand with him, but a little manipulation could help with implementing the more large-scale policies, like his plan for a modified _Hitlerjugend_ to keep the population in line. It would be a true challenge; the man was not stupid, after all. But he had emotions, and Reinhard Heydrich was very, very good at manipulating those. He'd known the rhetoric for years, after all, had helped Himmler and Goebbels practically create the Mad Austrian's speech material. A pity he was alone; Goebbels had been a master of lies and manipulative words, and Heydrich had given him his due respect; more caution would be needed, now, for without the propagandist to handle that aspect Heydrich would have to rely on his own charisma and double-speaking skills, which were somewhat less adept.   
  
But for now, Heydrich only needed to worry about one thing; his performance.   
  
The merchant stood, and the Butcher of Prague rose with him. "It is rather late," the man with the bejeweled nose said, "and I shudder to think of what might happen to our beloved Captain of the Guard walking home at night. Please, stay the night here in my own humble abode."   
  
"I would be delighted to spend the night with such a powerful and respected man," the Butcher of Prague replied with a masterful imitation of a smile. "Your chambers?"   
  
"Of course," the merchant replied with darkened eyes and a different sort of smile. "Or else what have we been flirting for this past month?"   
  
Heydrich allotted a chuckle and a split-lipped grin, showing a hint of teeth in his open mouth, to the game. He hadn't done this since before the Mad Austrian had had the _Sturmateilung_ purged. Hopefully his skills in sexual matters were still up to par; unlike Himmler or the Mad Austrian, Reinhard Heydrich had never seen the point of using said skills for something so useless as _recreation_.   
***  
As the gang of stupid, half-naked smelly frontier Turks rode, Milunka Savic listened in on their damned Turkish babble.   
  
General opinion seemed to be that the Englishman wasn't the best rider that the Turks had ever seen, or the best fighter, but his sheer insane ballsiness was worth following just to see what would happen.   
  
"I heard the crazy Khal talking about how he likes to drink some shit called "tea" earlier," a warrior called Rakharro said to his friends. "Something with leaves and shit in boiled water."   
  
"Doesn't sound so bad. Weak, but not so bad," a thickset brute by the name of Aqqo replied. "If he drinks that all the time, must make him blood-mad as he is."   
  
"Can't be all bad," Rakharro concurred.   
  
"You Turk boys aren't wrong," Savic announced, riding up to the shirtless Dothraki, who kept a careful distance from the woman who'd beaten the living shit out of some of the _khalasar_ 's best warriors in hand-to-hand training, shrugging off the one wound she'd actually gotten as if it weren't even there. "English love their fucking tea. They built an empire greater than any other in the world on that shit. Between you fucking Turk rats and me, there has to be something to it, because it makes them--or at least that crazy one--both insane and incredible soldiers. Good discipline, for sure."   
  
The Dothraki nodded eagerly, carefully riding just out of sword range. "So will it work for us?" Aqqo asked.   
  
"The fuck should I know?" Savic replied. "God, you people are like children sometimes. Try it out for yourself if you have the balls."   
  
"Alright, what is with you?" growled Rakharro. "You keep insulting us at every opportunity, and I don't mind some good-natured insults, but you insult every man in the _khalasar_ and his mother besides, for no reason! Why do you keep spitting on us, eh?"   
  
Savic bared her teeth. "Because you speak what sounds to me damn near like Turkish. You don't know what Serbia even is, do you?"   
  
"No," the Dothraki confirmed.   
  
"Figures." Savic hunched over on her horse. "Short version, I have a husband and daughters back home that I need to get back to, and you people's language sounds like the people who treated us Serbs like shit for centuries. Until we got free and the Austrians started lording it over us like the arrogant German bastards they are, of course. So I'm not terribly inclined to be patient with fucking Turks."   
  
"How in the Great Stallion's name did your people get trampled on; if even your women can fight like men, you people must be invincible!"   
  
Savic shook her head and laughed harshly. "We have good soldiers, that's true, but hey, when the Turk outnumbers you ten to one, the fuck are you supposed to do with better soldiers, eh?"   
  
"Charge them and die gloriously?" suggested a young Dothraki by the name of Mogho. Savic twisted in her seat with a scowl, and the Dothraki edged their horses away from the unfortunate man.   
  
"And what fucking good is that, you idiot? That gets your ass killed without stopping the enemy, and then they can go and rape your daughters and kill your husband and all the other shit they talk about in propaganda. Now I don't know about you, idiot, but I'm pretty happy with my man and I love my daughters, and there's no fucking way in Hell that I'm letting them get stabbed and taken by a bunch of fucking Turks. You understand? I know that you people are stuck in the Dark Ages and don't even have gunpowder, but God, try to have at least a modicum of sense, you fucking idiot! First thing tomorrow, I want you on the training ground, ready to do five hundred push-ups to my specifications, you understand?"   
  
"But I just..."   
  
"Let me put this in different terms. Be there and do your push-ups or I shoot you in the head, idiot."   
  
The Dothraki gulped and nodded. His comrades chuckled and began to crack jokes about his brainpower and courage. Then Savic eyed the rest of them, and they clammed up.   
  
"The rest of you, as well. Idiots need some damned discipline."   
  
She spurred her horse on, muttering about idiot Turks. The Dothraki watched her go.   
  
"I want her to bear my children," Aqqo muttered when the Serb was safely out of earshot. "She's tough as a fine stallion and three times as mean. She'd have fine sons"   
  
"You insane?" Rakharro shot back. "She'd bite your cock off before you could even stick it in her!"   
  
"Oh, I know, brother. That's why I'm going to ask, soft and nicely. Like those weakling civilized men." The Dothraki spun to glare at a man who scoffed at him. "Hey, it's worth a try! And if you want to try getting your cock bitten off or being shot in the head, be my guest!"   
***  
"In broad daylight these foul, subhuman mongrels dare to attack our fair city!" thundered Reinhard Heydrich in the vast audience hall before the council of Pureborn. It took effort; his voice was not made for thundering, or even harsh shouting like that of the Mad Austrian. "They attack our most respected merchants and kill them and their families in the most depraved of ways! We must defend our fair and beloved city from these brutes! Please, my lords, I beg permission to expand and strengthen the Guard, and to conduct searches for possible Ibbenese saboteurs and sympathizers. Our prisoner has given me evidence of a terrible plot; even now the mongrels seek the death of your superior bloodlines!" Heydrich flourished the transcript of what his victim had screamed out after a day and a half of careful interrogation. It was exactly what Heydrich had wanted, bar a few grammatical errors.   
  
Several of the Pureborn looked at each other. Whispers of "warlocks" and "not forseen" were passed around. A brief argument sprung up about "shade of the evening" and "magic". Heydrich waited, standing tall and proud in his longcoat and swastika armband (his newest initiative to "improve recognition of each other" among the guardsmen). Finally, the Pureborn turned back towards him.   
  
"Captain Heydrich. How many of these conspirators are there?"   
  
"Here, it is in the confession, my lords. The prisoner spoke of at least fifty but alleged that there are more, not all of them the Ibbenese animals. Anyone could be a plotter or a sympathizer; from the lowliest street rat to your very own body servants." Heydrich seized the air with a clenched fist. "I have a plan to exterminate these mongrels and abominations swiftly and efficiently, but I need more men and more discretion to continue to ensure the safety of your righteous selves and the invaluable merchants of our beloved city. Please, help me protect you."   
  
There was another whispered debate, this one much shorter as the "confession" was passed around. Heydrich had truly felt _alive_ as that thick-browed hairy prisoner had screamed and writhed under his knife; just thinking about it made his private organs twitch. Heydrich forced himself to focus on the plan; getting distracted by the satisfaction of a good long torture session was inefficient and would endanger or complicate the plan unnecessarily.   
  
The Pureborn lords turned back. "You will have your men and your writs of search, Captain Heydrich. Go at once, and prevent this vile conspiracy from taking effect!"   
  
Heydrich bowed, and then saluted with his right arm rigid in front of him. "It shall be as you command. _Sieg Heil!_ "   
  
As he walked out, _musketieren_ bodyguards saluting and shouting " _Heil Heydrich!_ " as he passed, the enthusiastic new _Obersturmführer_ Xhagar leading the chant, _Obergruppenführer_ Reinhard Heydrich ran over Stages Three and Four.   
  
Stage Three: Eliminate rivals, especially focusing on destroying, discrediting, or suborning the warlocks. And stage Four: Consolidate control.   
  
This would be pathetically easy.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Heydrich has basic guns and is bringing fascism to a world that has no concept of such things. Heydrich is utterly evil and without scruple or conscience, and is a legitimately fit and talented fencer besides. He is a serious threat to anyone who happens to, say, be wandering around Essos with a bunch of Dothraki looking to get their hands on some ships, for example. And especially to a slightly insane Englishman who spent years killing Nazis with a sword and a longbow as a commando and who's now wandering around Essos with only 40,000 Dothraki and a grouchy Serb for company. :D
> 
> Milunka Savic (I still don't know how to produce the accented C on this keyboard) is probably the most-decorated female soldier who ever lived. She was wounded nine times and kept insisting to go back into the fray anyway. Also she was a crack shot and a legitimately good NCO. The downside here is that she's worried about her family, pissed off at being sent to a fantasy world for some reason, and is dealing with "those fucking Turks", as I'm having Dothraki and Turkish autotranslate into each other for the sake of the story. 
> 
> Mad Jack is...very, very British. He was also nuts enough to volunteer for commando duty simply because he thought that sounded dangerous, and therefore fun. The man was a total badass, escaped two concentration camps by simply walking out, and even complained about the USA entering the war because "if it weren't for those damn Yanks we could have kept the war on for another ten years!" So, insane. But badass. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed!


End file.
